Find the Joy

I spent part of yesterday talking with someone I love who just had a bone marrow transplant. He is in isolation . . . and at day 6, meaning the worst is yet to come. And so much of the battle is staying positive in the face of being alone, in the face of feeling pain. I sat on the phone trying to will some joy through the phone. And love. Lots of that. I am hoping he felt it.

So there I was after hanging up, needing to go somewhere alone and cry for a minute or two. And then exhale. Thanksgiving is over and now it's that insane dash to Christmas. Last year, I lost most of the season. Baby Girl had rheumatic fever. I had strep throat. I only sent Christmas cards to A-M. This year I'm starting at Z just in case.

Last year, I didn't hang lights. I was lucky I had a tree, and as it was, I decorated it about three days before the holiday and it was one of those Charlie Brown trees left after all the good ones are taken.

So it was yesterday, I was reminded to find the joy--and keep it this season.

That means writing something new. Returning to the Magickeepers, in Book II. It means hanging my lights this weekend, because there is nothing like white "twinkie" lights to make me smile. It means finding "just the right thing" for the people on my list--trying to spend less but still find something special. It means listening to this, 24/7. (And if you think I am kidding about 24/7, you have never spent the holiday season with me. Come on over--it'll be on!) It means gratitude.

So what will you do to find and keep the joy in this last slide of insanity before Christmas/Hanukah/New Year's?

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Wrapped until 12:45 a.m. Collapsed into sleep. Woken at 2:00 a.m. by Oldest Son. "Can we open presents now?"

"What? Are you nuts? It's TWO A.M.! We have to wait until at LEAST dawn."

Every half-hour on the half-hour, re-awoken by Oldest Son. "Now?

"No."

"How 'bout now?"

Joined by Baby Girl somewhere in the vicinity of 4:00 a.m.

"Now?"

"How 'bout now?"

"What about JUST the stocking?"

"ONE small present? Just one?"

"You won't BELIEVE what I can see coming out of my stocking."

"Now? Can we get up now?"

FINALLY, at 7:30, I said they could awaken Demon Baby to open presents (on the ONE morning he slept past 5:45 a.m.).

"Did Santa come to our home this morning?" Demon Baby asked. (This is really how he talks . . . he has an amazing vocabulary.)

Then it was two hours of non-stop opening and putting together of Demon Baby toys. Including the gift of Play-do from his godfather, who MAY be ex-godfathered, thank you very much. PLAY-DO? In the hands of the Demon? What were you thinking?

I'm exhausted.

But Merry Christmas one and all. May your lives be blessed with as much fullness as mine, as much love, as much giggles and morning cuddles and hugs and "I love yous." But maybe with a little more sleep.

Peace to all,
E

Scrooged!

Last night, I watched A Christmas Carol--an ancient version from 1938. I love A Christmas Carol because I am always waiting for that moment when Scrooge brings poor, beleaguered Bob and his family the biggest Christmas goose in town.

And really, Scrooge's story is about rewriting his life with a new ending. If you ever live vicariously through your characters, then you get to rewrite those parts of your life you would like to do over or do differently. My characters are always smarter than I am. Funnier than I am. They certainly dress better. My characters do not have Demon Babies that think nothing is more hilarious than sticking baby fingers onto Mama's lips and smearing lipstick down her chin. Their lives are far more glamorous usually. But . . . I am never tempted to rewrite my own ending. Writing is all for fun, and I'll stick with my Demon Baby and smeared lipstick, and today, these sweatpants and nightshirt and socks.

When I look to Christmas past, I always feel a bit of nostalgia. I know some people have a difficult time at the holidays. They miss people no longer with us. Or they have horrid childhoods and associate the holidays with memories of Christmas dysfunction. My Christmases, though, were always spectacular. My father grew up very, very poor, and he had never had a Christmas. In fact, until he met my mother, he had never had a birthday party. The day just wasn't observed. So I think he and my mother decided to make each Christmas "perfect," thereby rewriting my Dad's ending. We always got the big-ticket items we wanted--and only now do I understand the budgeting and sacrifice that goes into ensuring that. The tree was always beautiful, Christmas morning always happy and filled with smells of coffee and danish. Then we went visiting. My aunt, my cousins, my other cousins, my OTHER cousins. Yeah, we stretched out visiting from 11:00 in the morning until midnight.

Christmas present? Well, that I always assoicate with my own Christmas with my kids. It's usually insane . . . lots of presents, Christmas music, Demon Baby running wild. But in Christmas present I am always a LOT more tired than Christmas past. Now I know why my poor mother and father looked so exhausted on Christmas. They WERE exhausted--up until long past midnight on Christmas Eve doing the last of the wrapping and putting together bicycles. I somewhat dread Christmas Eve.

Christmas future? Well, I hope mine is less grim than Scrooge's. But I do understand time's inexorable march. Christmas cannot help but be tinged by those no longer here to share it. My Christmas really isn't my childhood Christmas, even if I wanted it to be the same. My grandparents are no longer here. We no longer speak to my father's side of the family (for complicated reasons of extraordinary betrayal on their part). My cousins are scattered across five or six states. Christmas reminds you of the losses . . .

But I still love Christmas. And as a writer, I wouldn't rewrite mine, or want to live through my characters. I like my memories just as they are.

As the saying goes. God bless us, everyone.

Happy holidays! Feel free to share your favorite holiday memories.

Ho-Ho-Havoc

Okay, so I really want this Christmas tree. Realy, really, really! However, thanks to the month from H-E-L-L, we got a Charlie Brown tree last night because the good ones were taken. And yes, getting a live tree is green (as in the environment)--did my research . . . as long as you turn it to mulch and get it from a Christmas tree farm.

But 'tis the season. For stress. I found this quote from Buddha.



A family is a place where minds come in contact with one another. If these minds love one another the home will be as beautiful as a flower garden. But if these minds get out of harmony with one another it is like a storm that plays havoc with the garden. ~Buddha



Nothing like Christmas to play havoc with your garden. It's a pressurized version of family. Which brings me . . . to writing.

You see, many of my books have holiday scenes in them. I'm not talking about writing romance books set at Christmas, sold just in late November/early December. Like this one by my fellow Nocturne author (which is a big hit, so buy one for the vampire fan on your list). No, I'm talking about intentionally setting books in November so I get Thanksgiving and Christmas in there. How many books have I done this in? The Roofer, Mafia Chic, Knockout, Double Down, Invisible Girl, Spanish Disco . . . and if I think about it, probably a few more.

And why? Because there is nothing like the holidays to just crush your characters. While it's a time of comfort and joy, it's also usually high-stress, and if there are any family issues, nothing like the Christmas season to bring them to the forefront. Why, it was Christmas Eve nine years ago, when we called my in-laws to wish them a Merry Christmas that my significant other's stepfather told him that I was a b**** and he was a piece of . . . well, one of the unmentionable words on the nun's list from last night's post. Merry Christmas to you, too. :-)

At Christmas, you see people alone. I did that in Spanish Disco because Cassie had no one to spend Christmas with. The Christmas season has a way like few others to both pull people into the warmth of the holiday . . . or leave someone out in the cold.

Grief is sharper at the holidays. Yesterday, I found an old picture, and sat in my office and sobbed because of the inexorable march of time. I don't want my parents to get old. It's that simple. And that terrifying sometimes. I talk to my mother every day of my life. I can't even "go there" to the inevitable of life and loss. I lost my beloved Grandma the day before Christmas Eve. I had a miscarriage in November, and always feel a pang before the holidays set in. You just FEEL more at the holidays. At least I do. And don't EVEN get me started on the Christmas movies. Yes, I sob at It's Wonderful Life. Every year. EVERY year.

So Christmas is pressure. But it's the good stuff too. Demon Baby is freaking out over Christmas. In a GOOD uniquely Demon Baby way. At Lowe's getting our Christmas tree yesterday, he was SCREAMING at all the light-up Santas and all that other Ho-Ho crap they sell. Happy, delighted, shrieking screams of joy. So we bought a "Santa house with light show." It plays this vaguely Mexican-sounding song (being as my kids' father is Mexican, we love this stuff--Baby Girl says it reminds her of her "peeps"--oh yeah, she's eccentric that way), and the house lights up like a friggin' airport runway and does a light show. And Demon Baby dances. Not once. Not twice. No, on the 150th time he presses the light show, he's still dancing like a madman while we all want to take a hammer and smash Santa's light show. I heard the Santa House song in my sleep last night. But . . . I love that he is so into it. He brings us all joy. And migraines. But that's the dichotomy of the season.

So . . . ever intentionally stick a holiday into a book? And how jealous are you of my Santa light show playing all day . . . long?

Peace,
E